curtain was drawn and she slipped into the twilight again was of that same frantic voice: “Get me some atropine over here…” Twenty minutes before the chopper touched down on the trauma center helipad, she thrust herself against her restraints and began sobbing in a child’s voice, “The Grinch stole all our gifts…”
Later, as the morphine began to wear off and the pain re-awakened, Kate’s impressions became more solid. They’d had an accident, she remembered that, and her father had been badly hurt. She tried to ask someone about him but things were happening so quickly now, silent men whisking her out of the helicopter in a tight bundle of blankets, the brisk stretcher ride to the ER, someone asking her about drug allergies then a doctor saying, “Let me know if this hurts too much.”
Then her own voice screaming, the sound seeming to rip itself from her throat as the doctor yanked on her broken arm.
“Better sedate her,” were the last words she heard.
* * *
Marty Small crawled into the city at midnight. By that time the storm had reached full throttle, a drop in temperature turning the wet flakes into icy shrapnel, high winds buffing the roads into skating rinks. Driving was a nightmare, every asshole and his cousin out on the roads, and for the hundredth time Marty cursed his piece-of-shit van. The defroster couldn’t keep up, so he had to lean out at every stoplight and scrape a peephole in the rippled sheet of ice that crusted the windshield. When he finally pulled up in front of the Fantasia Club, he was fried.
There were a couple of creeps Marty recognized standing in the club’s recessed doorway. He’d seen them around the strip before, a pair of dreadlocks-wearing white boys, smoking reefer and freezing their asses off with style, shifting from foot to foot with a kind of fogged-out reggae rhythm. They were thieves, Marty knew, and before leaving the van he threw a blanket over his loot. They were probably the dinks who’d jacked his floor mats.
He got out, locked the van and headed inside, trying to look as bad as he could for the criminals in the doorway.
As usual the Fantasia was hoppin’. The place was classic sleaze: blaring, ass-grinding music; a haze of smoke so thick you needed a seeing-eye dog to find the shitter; a stable of bored-looking lap dancers making the rounds; a red-carpeted runway featuring a smeared brass fuck-pole that saw more snatch in a week than Marty’d seen in his entire life; and, completing the picture, row upon row of gawking shitfaces, sucking beers and adjusting their hard-ons. No shortage of degenerates in the big city.
Though Marty was a regular, he didn’t see himself in that light. Earlene worked here, and as soon as he managed to convince her to come crib with him, he could give a shit if the place burned to the ground. Except for Dane, of course. Dane was the bartender and Marty had a special kind of relationship with him. The supply and demand kind.
Before straying from the doorway Marty scanned the crowd. There were a couple of hardcases he owed money to and there was no way he wanted to run into one of them tonight. Not that the shitbirds scared him or backed him down. If push came to shove Marty could be pretty handy with his fists, and he always carried a switchblade, six inches of Brazilian steel he was ready to use. He just didn’t feel like parting with any of this score. Not that way. It was lucky money and he didn’t want anything throwing a hex on it before he had a chance to take a run at Earlene.
Satisfied the coast was clear, Marty made his way to the bar.
“Marty Small,” Dane said when he spotted him. “The usual?”
“Tonight, my man,” Marty said, “make it a triple.” He unzipped his jacket and slid onto a stool, glad to be someplace warm.
“My, my,” Dane said, dipping two big fingers into a pocket on his red silk vest. Dane was a South African giant, six-foot-six-inches of burnished ebony and a smile that
Later, as the morphine began to wear off and the pain re-awakened, Kate’s impressions became more solid. They’d had an accident, she remembered that, and her father had been badly hurt. She tried to ask someone about him but things were happening so quickly now, silent men whisking her out of the helicopter in a tight bundle of blankets, the brisk stretcher ride to the ER, someone asking her about drug allergies then a doctor saying, “Let me know if this hurts too much.”
Then her own voice screaming, the sound seeming to rip itself from her throat as the doctor yanked on her broken arm.
“Better sedate her,” were the last words she heard.
* * *
Marty Small crawled into the city at midnight. By that time the storm had reached full throttle, a drop in temperature turning the wet flakes into icy shrapnel, high winds buffing the roads into skating rinks. Driving was a nightmare, every asshole and his cousin out on the roads, and for the hundredth time Marty cursed his piece-of-shit van. The defroster couldn’t keep up, so he had to lean out at every stoplight and scrape a peephole in the rippled sheet of ice that crusted the windshield. When he finally pulled up in front of the Fantasia Club, he was fried.
There were a couple of creeps Marty recognized standing in the club’s recessed doorway. He’d seen them around the strip before, a pair of dreadlocks-wearing white boys, smoking reefer and freezing their asses off with style, shifting from foot to foot with a kind of fogged-out reggae rhythm. They were thieves, Marty knew, and before leaving the van he threw a blanket over his loot. They were probably the dinks who’d jacked his floor mats.
He got out, locked the van and headed inside, trying to look as bad as he could for the criminals in the doorway.
As usual the Fantasia was hoppin’. The place was classic sleaze: blaring, ass-grinding music; a haze of smoke so thick you needed a seeing-eye dog to find the shitter; a stable of bored-looking lap dancers making the rounds; a red-carpeted runway featuring a smeared brass fuck-pole that saw more snatch in a week than Marty’d seen in his entire life; and, completing the picture, row upon row of gawking shitfaces, sucking beers and adjusting their hard-ons. No shortage of degenerates in the big city.
Though Marty was a regular, he didn’t see himself in that light. Earlene worked here, and as soon as he managed to convince her to come crib with him, he could give a shit if the place burned to the ground. Except for Dane, of course. Dane was the bartender and Marty had a special kind of relationship with him. The supply and demand kind.
Before straying from the doorway Marty scanned the crowd. There were a couple of hardcases he owed money to and there was no way he wanted to run into one of them tonight. Not that the shitbirds scared him or backed him down. If push came to shove Marty could be pretty handy with his fists, and he always carried a switchblade, six inches of Brazilian steel he was ready to use. He just didn’t feel like parting with any of this score. Not that way. It was lucky money and he didn’t want anything throwing a hex on it before he had a chance to take a run at Earlene.
Satisfied the coast was clear, Marty made his way to the bar.
“Marty Small,” Dane said when he spotted him. “The usual?”
“Tonight, my man,” Marty said, “make it a triple.” He unzipped his jacket and slid onto a stool, glad to be someplace warm.
“My, my,” Dane said, dipping two big fingers into a pocket on his red silk vest. Dane was a South African giant, six-foot-six-inches of burnished ebony and a smile that
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